Whetstone
by RisingSunfish
Summary: Close, cold, and tireless as the waves upon the shore, Marcus shapes the ones history will remember. (Pre-FE6 to Chapter 3. Canon character death.)


Marcus knew, as they descended the stairs beneath Castle Araphen, that they were too late. Lord Hector was dead. He didn't want to believe it any more than his young liege did. There had been an admirable urgency set in Roy's brow throughout the siege, but it was the first time the old knight was unnerved to see something of Lord Eliwood shining through in his son. The last time he'd caught that very look, it was in the dense, misty forest of an island they were never meant to escape. There were still days he woke up marveling at their survival, their incredible fortune—if it could still be called fortune, mired in the heartbreak of losing Lord Elbert. Marcus couldn't lay claim to it, he knew that; Eliwood counted on him to be a pillar, a stone wall. He couldn't bend, no matter how much it hurt. But it _did_ hurt, and he knew with each echoing step that those old wounds were moments from being slashed open again.

They reached the dungeons, blinking in the wake of the stench and trapped torch smoke. There was a pause as their small party—himself, Roy, Wolt, and Sir Bors— gathered on the threshold of the stairwell. Without thinking, Marcus grabbed Roy's shoulder. Roy jumped slightly—clearly the duress of the battle hadn't yet left him—and glanced back at Marcus. Now was his chance: to warn the young man, brace him for the inevitable, dampen that burning look before he saw it drenched. Instead, Marcus cleared his throat.

"Keep an eye out, lad. We're primed for an ambush in here."

Roy nodded silently and turned the corner, and Marcus felt a pang of shame. He had wavered.

 _\- Three years earlier -_

Lord Eliwood always made a concerted effort to be punctual. Marcus was genuinely fond of the marquess, but it was these small, thoughtful gestures that made him feel truly blessed to have pledged his service to House Pherae. Other nobles would have bade him haul his old bones up to their quarters for a meeting—not that the exercise bothered him—but it was Eliwood who came to meet _him_ on the training grounds, in the armory, or here at the stables: tired, overworked, even hung over on a couple of occasions during his marriage, but always on time.

"Good morning, milord," Marcus began, retreating from a stubborn patch of dust on his horse's coat. "I trust you slept well?"

"A little—too much so," Eliwood yawned, rubbing between his eyes-. "I'm afraid I wouldn't have gotten out of bed if Roy hadn't made a point of dragging me down here, so you can thank him."

"This early?" The sky was blue-gray, the rising sun still hidden behind the border mountains. "My, you'll have to mind he doesn't turn into a servant while you're not looking."

"There's no danger of that—you haven't seen the state of his room." Marcus chuckled, stretching to brush a piece of hay from the horse's ear. "I promised him I would talk to you about starting on his swordplay lessons."

"Yes, he's asked me as well." This was an understatement. A less patient man than Marcus would have called it _pestering_. Not that Roy was rude or obtrusive— quite the opposite— but it wasn't hard to peg his true intentions. A conversation didn't go by in which Roy didn't bring up his father, and always with a pinched brow and the implicit tone of measurement in his words. _How old was Father when he started learning?,_ he'd ask. _Do you think Father will ever let me spar with him?_ Marcus knew Eliwood didn't invite the comparisons himself, but they bothered him nonetheless. He hoped Eliwood would finally permit the lessons and let them get on with it; it would be the only chance at putting Roy's worries to rest. "Why don't we start this afternoon, milord? The weather should allow for it. Where is he now?"

"I told him to wait outside."

Marcus took in a deep breath. "I take it he hasn't changed your mind."

"Ah, well…." Eliwood sighed, casting his gaze out the long window facing the still-misty fields. "I promised him I'd talk to you. I didn't promise anything beyond that." He looked troubled—an expression that never quite escaped him anymore, but Marcus could tell his concern ran deeper than the daily worries of a marquess.

"Well, I've told you before," Marcus continued, "it would be an honor to teach your son." He shelved the brush and turned to face Eliwood with full attention. "That isn't why you're here, is it?"

Eliwood gave a tired smile. "You get right to the point. I'm grateful for that."

"And I'm grateful you let me. So, what is it? Are you still worried about Master Roy's health? I'll say it again: a few weeks of solid training and he'll breathe clearer than he's ever done."

"No… no, he's out of the woods now, I think. And you're right—daily practice would be the best thing for him, I've no qualms about that. I know he'll be able to manage." He began to pace, wringing his hands in agitation. "I just don't know if I will."

"What do you mean, milord?"

"It's… Marcus, the moment I put a sword in his hands, I'll have to accept that he's going to use it someday."

"Lord Eliwood, a few sparring lessons won't make a monster out of him, if that's what you're worried about."

"I know that," the marquess said wearily. "I… how do I put this?" He paused, casting his gaze around for the right words as though they might be carved into the walls. "Roy's never left Pherae—he hasn't been away from the castle more than a few times. I thought he would grow up afraid of his own shadow, but he's—he's curious and eager and he can't wait to go out and see the world. I don't want to teach him to fear it."

Marcus looked at him quietly, frowning. Eliwood had called on his honesty, so an honest opinion he would give:

"Lord Eliwood, you can't afford to shield him forever." He lowered his voice: "The world is a cruel place. You had to learn that from experience… you wouldn't risk things being the same for your son, would you?" Eliwood crossed his arms stiffly, eyes fixed out the window.

"It won't be the same," he said finally. "Ours were unusual circumstances, Marcus—you have to admit that. But it's over now. And all that aside… I've been fair, you know, with everything I can account for." He was looking Marcus straight in the eye now, his voice firm and doubtless.

"Sir, is this about Lord Elbert?" Eliwood ducked his head just enough for Marcus to consider it a nod. "I thought you were at peace with him. Lady Eleanora swears by his innocence, and… if you'll allow me, milord, I would as well."

"Innocent or guilty, he took it to the grave—and we had to deal with the repercussions."

They fell silent for a moment: Eliwood had dredged up bitter memories. Everyone thought they might afford to breathe a little easier after they'd returned from the Dread Isle, but the threat of annihilation had dulled their sense of troubles more mundane and political: none of them could explain why five Lycian marquesses ended up dead within the span of a few months, nor what they were doing at the heart of the mystery. The shadow of the rebellion plot hung over them, however often they'd convinced themselves that Elbert wasn't involved. For the first and last time, Eliwood was speechless at court, and they were saved from a certain crisis only because the new Marquess Ostia was willing to buy silence. Over time, and with his mother's help, Eliwood managed to regain the trust of his subjects and the tolerance of his peers, but he'd never quite been able to let go of the compromise that secured his position.

"Milord," Marcus began warily, "there's no doubt you made the most you could out of the situation. I don't think Master Roy will inherit any of it, at least. But—if you'll forgive me—it serves my point. Be fair, by all means, but don't expect anyone else to be."

"That's just it— _I'll_ suffer those blows, if it comes to that, but he shouldn't have to. I won't allow it." He said it with the assertiveness he usually reserved for his most stubborn opponents.

"Lord Eliwood… surely you know you won't always be there for him? Don't you think it's best to make sure he's ready— like you were?" Eliwood maintained a hard stare out the window.

"I just want some time with him," he said quietly. "I've spent so long ruling out his future… he's finally in good health, and now I have to give him over—start training him for war." He shook his head. "I can't do it. Not yet."

"When, then?"

It took Eliwood a moment to answer. "When he's in Ostia. Hector's in talks with the Etrurian court mages to find Lilina a magic tutor… I'll see if he can't find someone for Roy." He paused again, seeming to recover somewhat. "Yes, I think he'll do well with magic. He's certainly bright enough. And he won't have to learn it as a battle art—I know Mother didn't." The light that had returned to his eyes made Marcus push back his objections. He had never heard of a lordling growing up without learning to use a weapon. He could imagine the reactions of Roy's peers—he'd be called weak, or lazy. No one would think it was Eliwood's choice. It wasn't Marcus's place to tell him this, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was that Eliwood looked hopeful. Marcus turned away from him, back towards his horse and the stable wall, driving thoughts of dead knights and magic seals from his mind.

"I trust your judgment, Lord Eliwood."

Eliwood stepped away from the window with a quelling sigh, his temperate voice filling the room. "I suppose I've got to tell Roy, haven't I?"

"He's a patient lad. I doubt he'll be too disappointed," Marcus said, without conviction. He wondered if Eliwood planned on lying to his son about their conversation. An idea came to him, saddled on a twinge of guilt, and he turned back towards Eliwood. "Tell him I don't have any time to teach him. It won't be long before I've got another batch of recruits to train, anyway." Eliwood opened his mouth, looking perturbed— then closed it and nodded.

"I understand. Thank you, Marcus," he said, his voice stoked back into warmth. He put a hand, steady as always, on Marcus's shoulder. "It's good to know I can always rely on you."

"Of course, milord."

As Eliwood took leave of the stables, Marcus heard light footsteps just outside.

"What'd he say? Will he teach me?" Roy's voice was loud enough to travel between the wood panels of the inner wall. The knight stroked his horse's neck absentmindedly, listening hard against his better judgment.

Eliwood took a few steps away from the door, straw cracking under his feet. "Marcus has other duties to attend to right now, I'm afraid."

"He told me it was up to you whether I could learn swordfighting!"

Eliwood paused. "It is. And I think Marcus has enough on his plate already. We don't want to take advantage of his generosity, do we?"

"He thinks I can't handle it," Roy went on. "He must've heard how lousy I was at archery…."

"No, Roy, that's not it. I promise that's not it." Eliwood sounded relieved to have found a foothold on some truth. "We just think there's something better out there for you. Something you'll really excel at." Another pause. "You know, I mentioned to Marcus… I'm wondering if we shouldn't start you on some magic theory." Roy made a delighted, muffled noise, apparently from within a rather tight hug.

"You're going to teach me magic?!" he exclaimed, breaking away.

"Only what you can learn from books for now. But that way you'll be able to practice it once you're in Ostia."

"When? When do I get to go?"

Eliwood sank into his longest pause yet. "Just another year."

o - o - o

Before Marcus's eyes, the seasons passed and that year had slipped by. He thought it must have seemed slow to Roy, and all the more painfully swift to Eliwood. The two of them made the journey to Ostia together, but Eliwood's return trip took longer than expected. He came back in perfect composure, with full reports on the neighboring territories—all business, like that had been the true purpose of his trip all along. Yet he couldn't belie a certain weariness after the fact, as if he had given a part of himself away along with his son.

Roy's first letter from Ostia came bundled with another, stamped neatly with an ornate seal. Marcus thought, as he took it from the post rider up to Eliwood's study, that it looked like the one on Count Reglay's letters, but Eliwood corrected him upon receiving it.

"No, I'm not familiar with this crest," he said, looking a touch concerned. He set it aside and tore open Roy's letter. Marcus stood next to the doorway, attentive for a dismissal but curious enough not to leave of his own accord. Eliwood's expression became modestly relaxed as his eyes traveled down the stationery. "Hm. Roy's doing well." He smiled. "Seems he's fond of his magic tutor. …Ah, she's one of Pent's students! Sounds like Hector did his research for once." Eliwood reached the end of the letter and set it down on his desk, still open. "Well, that's a relief. At least he doesn't seem homesick." He picked up the other letter. "Nothing from Hector this time?"

"No, milord. The post rider implied he'd have something sent in a few weeks."

"Hm. I hope he hasn't come into any trouble over looking into this business with Bern…." Eliwood leaned back to read the second letter, the lines between his eyebrows growing deeper. Marcus wondered if he'd received another report on Bern's activities; from what he'd heard, the signs pointed to aggression, and there were rumors of an impending attack. Pherae had little in the way of military power, and yet Eliwood took in news from the spy circuit as if he alone held the nation's defenses in his hands. Feeling somewhat intrusive, Marcus turned to watch the coals glow in the hearth across the room. He glanced back when he heard the rustle of papers. Eliwood appeared to be gripped by a sudden, if veiled, distress.

"Is something wrong, Lord Eliwood?" The marquess gave a small, uncommitted shake of the head, and Marcus thought he saw a flash of something unusual, yet strikingly familiar in its contrast. He'd averted his eyes in just the same way when Marcus had caught him sneaking out of the castle as a boy, and whenever he'd had to speak to young Nils on the passage back to Valor.

"It's… it's not…." Marcus didn't press further, but Eliwood met his eyes and breathed out all dishonesty in a shaky sigh. "Roy's tutor sent me this. She said she can't teach him magic."

It took Marcus a second to realize the significance. "I thought you said Lord Hector had hired a court mage—"

"I mean he can't _learn_ magic," said Eliwood. "Cecilia's tried every angle, he's just—unable to somehow. He doesn't know yet, he said he was just having a hard time with it. Now, she's offering to teach him swordplay… I don't think she realizes how far behind he is. Everyone I'd talked to said he'd be able to pick up anima magic in a heartbeat, but starting out with swordplay now…." He stood up, pushing his hair back with a shaking hand. "This is all my fault—I-I waited too long, and now there's no time…."

"Milord, he can still learn," Marcus offered. "If anyone can start learning it this late—"

" _There isn't time!_ " Eliwood snapped. "Bern is mobilizing—it won't be long now before they mount an invasion. The Alliance won't hold, not in the state it's in… and now I've left my son unprepared—" His voice broke, and he leaned into his desk, taut and visibly trembling. "Maybe I should just send for him to come home. If it's only a matter of time, I… I want him to be here, at least."

"Lord Eliwood, you mustn't talk like that!" Marcus found he'd raised his voice without meaning to, his heart suddenly racing. "What—do you think your father would have given up on you this easily? "

"I don't know that he didn't!"

"Well, a fine example you'd set following after him! Send back for Lord Roy—and then what? What would you do if Bern invaded—see him die here still cradled in your arms? Deny him the chance to face his enemies like a man? Your father granted you that, at least!"

Eliwood was silent. Marcus's breaths came in harsh and strong; he'd never, _never_ lost his temper with his liege before. He'd never had occasion to. But neither had Eliwood ever _scared_ him like this. He spoke like a long-held prisoner—at once desperate and resigned. But that wasn't the whole of it. As he watched the marquess, waiting for an answer, Marcus saw what really unsettled him: the usual fire in his eyes dead and cold, his posture limp and purposeless… Eliwood's strength was gone. And, at that moment, it didn't matter what became of Marcus as a knight for confronting him—on his honor as a friend and mentor, he wouldn't let Eliwood cave in like this.

"Milord… forgive me," he began, "but I must speak. I understand your concern—"

"No, you don't," Eliwood breathed, sinking back into his chair. "You've never had a child—you can't understand what it's like."

Marcus blinked, his throat very dry all of a sudden. He didn't understand, did he? Had he not understood as he guided Eliwood in the sword, through whatever scrapes and bruises the lordling earned? As he'd lent him a strong shoulder over Lord Elbert's makeshift coffin? As he'd fought alongside him, consoled him, given him advice, remained always at hand throughout each of his trials and triumphs and heartbreaks? And he hadn't once betrayed Eliwood. The fact blazed within him like an outlaw's torch—for it _was_ a fact, truer than the best-held faith in Lord Elbert.

Nor would he betray Eliwood now—not when, despite his frustration, he was most needed. When he spoke again, it was with an effort to keep his voice steady, as it had been all those other times. "Perhaps that's all the more reason to heed me, sir. No… I can't speak as a father, but I hold my right to speak as a teacher—and all you stand to teach Lord Roy like this is cowardice. He… he looks up to you. Anyone can see that. I know you can't remain as a statue, sir, in times like these… but please don't disappoint him." Eliwood had buried his face in his hands; when he looked up at Marcus, it was through tears.

"What can I do?" he said—not desperately, out into an unhearing world, but with a note of battered resolution, ready for an answer. Marcus's breathing quieted; he stepped forward and, slowly, stiffly, knelt before the marquess.

"You can trust me. I assure you I'll do everything in my power to help you and your son, whatever happens." He knew an oath like that meant less and less each passing day, as his hair grayed and his joints rusted, but it was all he had.

Eliwood swallowed hard and nodded. "Then… I'm afraid we can't waste any more time. I'll have to ask you to go to Ostia. Teach Roy like you taught me. I know it's drastic, but I can't think of anything else to do. You're the only one I'd trust to train him properly."

"You have my word," said Marcus. Eliwood simply looked at him, taking it in. Then he set Roy's letter aside and gathered the other pieces of bad news together, his fingers still shaking slightly as the surface of his desk came into view. The candles had dwindled into puddles of wax, spilling out onto the lacquered oak. Marcus looked back at the marquess; from this angle, the shadows under his eyes hung in shocking relief. His panic had enlivened him briefly, but having past, it left him looking hollow. "And Lord Eliwood, I need yours. Promise me you'll still be here when we return."

"Yes, of course," he replied, with only a stab at his usual sincerity. "I promise."

As Marcus headed back to the stables to stock his horse for the journey to Ostia, the familiar sun-bleached stone and faded tapestries of the castle awoke a cold fury within him. It was too much for one man to inherit, to have hung over his shoulders from birth. How could he have thought Eliwood a coward? He waged war against the lure of power and ease every day— and there was every chance it would kill him long before Bern's armies would.

o - o - o

Marcus returned to Pherae another two years older, and filled with trepidation. The declaration of war came after what seemed like ages of heavy expectation, yet as sudden and startling as the lash of a whip. Eliwood's summons for Roy and his knights had been written urgently, with an unsteady hand. Roy was holding up beyond any of their expectations in the sudden whirlwind of events, but Marcus worried about Eliwood. There were only so many times he would be able to suffer with grace. On their approach to the castle, Marcus heard whispers that, had they been weapons, would have unseated him: the marquess was ill, bedridden, possibly poisoned. Roy listened to the villagers with a stony expression, but rushed into the keep as soon as they reclaimed the castle, heedless of both his bleeding arm and Merlinus's reproaches. Marcus couldn't bring himself to follow. He waited in the courtyard, gazing around at the broken monuments and smoldering foliage, wondering first if the intruders had lain waste to the garden, and then whether Eliwood was even able to tend it anymore. He thought of their last conversation, how he'd built up the audacity to reprimand the marquess—and here he wouldn't even face him, fearful of seeing his steadfast form rendered feeble and helpless. So, the moment Marcus spotted a familiar face, he went to seek word on Eliwood's condition.

"Poisoned?" Rebecca's warm, wry smile spoke volumes, and Marcus's nerves slackened. "Lord Eliwood's subjects ought to have more faith in his personal guards." She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and Marcus saw a dry, jagged cut looming on her forehead. It had been a long time since he'd thought of her as a fellow knight. "No… he insists this is in his blood, but it's his position— though I suppose it's one and the same for him. He never stops working. I'd tell him not to take on so much, but we both know he's the only one fit to do most of it." She sighed, fidgeting with the knot in her bowstring. "I just hope this all ends soon. I knew about the reports, but if you told me a year ago I'd be sending Wolt off to war..." She dropped her voice. " _Another_ war, can you believe it? It's like the world's gone mad." Marcus nodded, feeling that little relief leave him. They were heading back into that murky wood, and no one knew what lay in wait for them there.

As Marcus finished checking up on the men and supplies he would need for their departure in the morning, he steeled himself to meet with Eliwood. The marquess had since slipped back to his quarters for rest and privacy. Marcus was keenly aware of his own footsteps as he approached Eliwood's parlor, but he heard laughter from inside as he made to knock on the door.

"—That wasn't the last time he had a nasty encounter with a pegasus, but I suppose we've all got to run into bad luck somewhere."

"He always said that scar was from a bear!" Lilina's voice rang gleefully. Marcus exhaled and knocked, and a moment later she opened the door a crack.

"Oh, Marcus!" Lilina opened the door wider and stepped aside. "It's good to see you—Eliwood was wondering where you went after the battle." There was a touch of concern to her voice; evidently her father did not keep knights beyond retiring age. Marcus turned his attention to the two lords with a nod.

Eliwood was not the image of wasted disease Marcus had feared, exactly, but he looked pale and pitifully thin past first glance. And _older_ , too, weariness and worry now etched into his face. Roy was fast asleep next to him, clean and bandaged, his forehead resting on Eliwood's shoulder.

"He ought to be packing," Marcus grunted.

"Hasn't had any time to unpack, has he?" said Eliwood, a soft rasp roughening his voice. "You'll have him back on military schedule at the crack of dawn tomorrow, Marcus. A little rest won't hurt in the meantime." It was a gently-issued command. Marcus shifted in place; he'd been prepared to see Eliwood looking sick and drawn, but the fondness and sadness with which he looked at his son left the veteran with a strange flutter of panic. Roy had seen only one battle through, and already so much could have gone wrong. Even allowing a shallow cut on his forearm or a bruised jaw seemed a failure to protect him for Eliwood's sake.

And in the end, if he was honest, it was about Eliwood. Marcus had only ever been a teacher to Roy, and he didn't want to imagine the circumstances that might change that. Already he felt out of place standing over such a tender scene, though a part of him knew they were the closest thing he had to family. So he cleared his throat and spoke up:

"Lord Eliwood, I'll need a moment of your time. We've departure preparations to discuss…." Eliwood nodded at Lilina, who stood promptly. Marcus wondered if they would have to speak softly over Roy, but the young man jerked awake when Eliwood nudged his arm.

"It's all right, nothing's happened," he assured him. Roy sat up and arched his shoulders in a stretch, casting a short, embarrassed glance in Marcus's direction. "Your soup's gotten cold… why don't you go see if you can persuade Rebecca to make you something else?"

"I'm not really hungry."

"Are you sure? I can't promise you'll have another home-cooked meal in the near future." Roy stared ahead at his hands with the intensity of a hunter. "Marcus needs to speak with me," Eliwood added. "We won't be long." And then, lower, "Everything's cleaned up now. Go on." Roy stood hesitantly, color flooding his face, and followed Lilina out into the hallway. Eliwood kept his gaze locked on the door after they'd shut it. He was silent for a long time; Marcus could hear the slight hiss in his lungs.

"I'm so sorry, Marcus," he said finally. "This was my fault… I let myself slip too far, and now a dozen of your guards are dead under my watch…." He seemed unfazed, despite his words; Marcus wondered if he was beginning to ration his sympathies. "All these years and I still didn't realize how many people rely on me." He closed his eyes momentarily, and exhaustion overtook his features. "Lilina brought a letter with her… did Hector tell you?"

"I was not aware of it."

"Mm. Well, this League meeting Roy's supposed to go to… Hector believes it's going to be compromised. It was dangerous anyway, of course… all those leaders gathered near Bern's border, it's like throwing Zephiel a banquet. But some of these nobles have been grasping at power ever since they took the throne— it won't take much for them to turn traitor." He heaved the sharp, cracking cough of a much older man. "If none of us who are truly willing to oppose Bern show up… I'm afraid they really will welcome the king as an honored guest. And the rest of us will be accused of treason in turn." Marcus's heart beat faster. So they couldn't escape the Alliance's traps after all. "Hector's willing to take the chance and meet them there, but he… he told me to stay behind in case something goes wrong."

"And… what about Lord Roy?"

Eliwood remained in bitter silence for a moment. "Roy won't be there."

"Lord Eliwood, you're not still thinking of keeping him here—!"

"Oh, I'll send him. But he won't be there. I'll be damned if I sacrifice my son to save face before those fools." His voice shook with fury. "That's _exactly_ how this all started—that prince was taught that his life didn't matter half as much as the crown on his head. And now all life is worthless to him." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bundle of parchment. "No, you're to take Roy to the border, where Fort Dubris used to be. I've contracted with a mercenary guild—on the Reglays' recommendation, they're fine," he added, as Marcus arched an eyebrow. "It's a safe pretense, as we've got to split the guard anyway. I doubt anyone would begrudge Roy a few more soldiers to travel with, considering his age. But take your time getting to Araphen."

"The border? Is that wise, milord?"

"The other invasions were… spectacles, from what I'd heard," Eliwood said darkly, handing the contract to Marcus. "Zephiel attacks where the most people will pay witness to it. He won't go after little villages unless the League puts up a fight."

Marcus hesitated, then: "We _will_ fight, of course." It could have been a question, but he worried about opening up the possibility of surrender when Eliwood was so vulnerable. But one look at the steel in his eyes told Marcus that his fears were groundless: whatever physical strength Eliwood had lost, he would remain steadfast in his oath to Lycia.

"The way it looks now, we'll be the only ones fighting. Just like old times, eh?" he said, with a smile too weak and dishonest to reach his eyes. Marcus longed to offer him comfort, but they were both beyond such empty gestures now.

"I'm afraid it won't be that easy," he said.

"No, of course not," Eliwood sighed. "But Roy's got you at his side, and that's something. He'll need someone to rely on in the days ahead."

"Lord Eliwood… what are you implying?" Before he could stop himself, Marcus lapsed on, voice trembling in its haste: "The others said you'd be able to recover from this…. Y-you don't mean to tell me you've heard otherwise?"

Eliwood shook his head. "War has a way of putting things in perspective. Do you remember, Marcus," he began, the sense of a story playing about his words, "before my father went missing, what my biggest fear was?"

"I couldn't say." Eliwood smiled, and this time a good-humored light flickered to life in his eyes.

"Thunder. It's only a noise, isn't it? And yet, right up to my coming of age, I would lie awake on stormy nights, shrinking under my blankets at every clap of it. But things changed, as you know, and before I knew it I could sleep soundly in a raging storm with nothing more than canvas above me." His eyes wandered towards the direction of his study. "You ought to be disappointed in me, Marcus. I've been spoiled, living like this. I wage my own little war at eighteen, and two years later I'm losing sleep over embargos and border disputes— and I've only grown more sensitive since then. I've lost sight of things… but it's all been noise. Nothing more. The war effort will need me to rest and recover… and you know it's not like me to flout direct orders."

He couldn't keep a straight face; Marcus offered the barest smile in turn. Eliwood leaned forward, folding his hands over his knees. "I haven't thanked you yet, have I?"

"For what, milord?"

"For my son. You brought him back safely." Marcus paused, his heart sinking.

"It was hardly my doing, sir," he said finally. "Lord Roy had little need of my help today. He's learned as quickly as you hoped he would." Another pause. "I think he'll be…" …Prepared? Safe? "He'll hold together."

"I know," said Eliwood quietly. "It seems strange to say, but he gives me strength. I only wish I could do something for him in return."

"Nonsense," Marcus growled. "You've done more than anyone for him. You raised him, you took care of him... he's only as resilient and thoughtful as he is because of you, sir."

"Generous as always with your praise, I see. I hardly know what to do with it. No… I'm not sure where Roy got his fortitude, but I didn't plant that seed. I've coddled him terribly. You know I have." He looked Marcus straight-on, challenging him to deny it. There was too much truth in his gaze for Marcus to meet it, so Marcus turned toward the window facing the ocean.

"You didn't want to teach him that war was an inevitability, sir. I believe… deep down, you and I both knew it was." The windows were cracked open to entice some of the late summer breeze. In another year, on a more peaceful horizon, they would have been speaking of the harvest festival. Marcus looked back at Eliwood. "There's something noble about that."

"'Insects railing against the heavens,'" echoed Eliwood. "I suppose it worked once. If only for a while." Marcus remained facing the window, and he couldn't tell whether Eliwood spoke with a smile or with a knotted brow. The sun had set now, leaving only a dim glow over the sea, light subsiding to sound as the waves clapped and burst into the cliff face out past the castle. For each generation, a little less stone and a little more sand. "Perhaps that's all we can expect." Marcus allowed himself a slow sigh through his nose.

"Marcus? Would you… promise me something?" The knight didn't turn, only inclined his head, but this time he thought he could read Eliwood's expression through his voice. It was a soft, serious tone; pleading, but dignified. Almost like a prayer. "Promise me you won't lie to Roy."

"Lie to him?" Marcus turned. "Why would I..."

"Out of pity... out of some sense of protection, or… because it's what I would do. He hasn't an inkling of what he's going to face, Marcus. Even after today, after he fought… I can't look him in the eyes and tell him the truth. That he'll get hurt again. He'll have to kill good people… he'll have to watch a friend die, in all likelihood. And me… I could take a turn for the worse any day now. He'll just have to carry on. But, if it comes to that… you must tell him."

Marcus would have been quick to pledge truth in any of those spheres, but his knightly ardor halted at Eliwood's last request, leaving him staring and silent. The marquess expected an answer in the positive, naturally, because that was what Marcus always gave. And the marquess's death he could relay. But the boy whose burdens he'd shared, the man he couldn't bear to disappoint? Marcus could look hard truths dead-on, but the death of a _son_ … that was a different matter.

Yet Eliwood lied to his own son. It seemed almost a matter of fact— and this coming from someone who radiated honesty, who had always seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, even if that meant it tore and frayed. Was that simply part of fatherhood? Marcus couldn't know, nor could he ask. But the thought made it easier for him to say, "I will."

Eliwood nodded, and his eyes traveled back to the horizon. Marcus sensed an end to their conversation, and perhaps to other things. But if this was to be his last image of Eliwood, at least it was one from which he could learn solace.

o - o - o

They found Hector in one of the first cells, slumped over against the wall. Marcus caught just a flicker in his eyes as Roy approached him, but that small shock of relief died when he saw the dark, shining hole in his plackart.

"Go get Elen," Roy said, his voice slightly higher than usual. Wolt nodded, his eyes wide, and started back off toward the stairs. "Bors, help me carry him— we've got to get him to the infirmary, he's bleeding out…. Lord Hector, j-just lean on me for a second—" For the first time, he was giving commands without thinking. Bors didn't move, his expression a mixture of pity and disbelief as he watched Roy crouch beneath Hector's arm and try fruitlessly to help him stand. "W-we'll take care of you, j-just hold on…." He looked up at the two knights, eyes brimming with tears, and yelled, " _Why aren't you doing anything?!_ "

With what appeared to be the remainder of his prodigious strength, Hector lifted a hand to quiet Roy. "Son, give it up. There's nothing to be done for me."

"No… no, you can't give up," Roy protested. "Our healer's coming, you just have to hold on until—"

"Roy, listen to me," Hector plowed on, pain and urgency straining his voice. "I need you to do as I ask—it's very important. There's a cave just outside Ostia with a weapon sealed inside…."

It was as if Marcus's years of foreboding had led up to these words. They hadn't stopped a great war. They had merely postponed it… left it to their children. He continued to watch, as if from a great distance, as Hector spoke with increasing difficulty and Roy listened, still bearing the general's weight on his lean shoulders, no understanding dawning in his eyes.

Hector died without stubbornness: a final, uncharacteristic act of surrender. Roy's expression remained tense, almost puzzled, for a moment. His hands fumbled to undo Hector's gauntlet and press a finger to his wrist, his own breathing becoming rapid and shallow. Bors approached them and gently lifted Hector's upper body from Roy's shoulders, leaning him back against the wall. "Lord Roy, we'll take care of him. Why don't you let Elen see to you?"

"I told everyone to spread out… i-if we'd stayed together, we could've moved faster…."

"It's not your fault." Bors' voice shook. Roy said nothing; his back was turned to Marcus, who was still powerless to stop his eyes from snapping to Hector's body. He felt apart from himself, as if he were a specter, and it took a moment to notice the high-pitched wail now echoing through the dungeons. The man he knew to draw energy from day-long battles, dead, and his young liege, proving himself so capable and almost wise, now trembling and panting with sobs.

Bors made to place a hand on Roy's back before glancing at Marcus and withdrawing. And at this, something sturdy and ancient within Marcus broke. He was too familiar with war to hate their enemies, and too sensible to hate death, but some terrible hatred bubbled up all the same. He swept over to where Roy had now collapsed into a kneel, grabbed him by the cowl, and pulled him roughly to his feet.

"Look at me." Roy's gaze remained buried safely in Marcus's cloak. "Look at me!" he barked again, and this time Roy hiccuped weakly and met his eyes. "Are you going to fall apart like this every time we lose someone, hm? Because it's going to happen again. And perhaps one of those times it _will_ be your fault. But you keep moving. Do you understand? You move forward, no matter what."

"I can't—"

"Your father did." Marcus spoke like a soldier now, and these words wounded. Roy, whose father surpassed him in all things but cleverness, would catch every sense of Marcus's meaning. Indeed, his eyes flashed as though the knight had struck him. "You have no idea how he's suffered. None. He's kept every bit of that burden off your shoulders. It's time you shared it." He let go of Roy, and the young man stood motionless, looking almost drowned. Nobody spoke further; they remained still, breathing in deep from that rotting air until their reinforcements arrived. The scene beat at Marcus's senses, and his thoughts churned dully. He expected— out of habit, if nothing else— to feel some regret in losing control, in treating the marquess's son like a fresh recruit, but nothing of the sort occurred.

So be it. Dragons roamed the skies, the world's greatest warrior was dead, war erupted at the seams of every nation— but still Marcus had kept that damned promise.

o - o - o

Lance had offered to write the report to Eliwood. He was always the first to volunteer for the hard jobs, with that peculiar hospitality common to foreigners, and this was no different. He finished quickly, and it was in Marcus's hands before nightfall— a kind but dispassionate letter, without too much detail or sentimentality. And he had couched the blow just slightly towards the end: _Roy is unharmed. Thanks to his command, we suffered no Pheraean casualties._

Marcus read these lines over again. It was good that he hadn't penned the letter himself. The miracles of Roy's safety and masterful guidance had been lost to him in that dungeon; all he could think back on was the dire manner in which his young liege had just come of age. Roy had kept himself scarce after the battle; Marcus hadn't seen him, at any rate. He imagined the boy crying in secret, or sulking somewhere outside camp, and still he found he couldn't dredge up much sympathy. Any pain Roy felt, anything putting up the least bit of resistance against his performance as a general (a _general_ now! and he hardly stood above Marcus's shoulders) would just mean more grief for Eliwood. And if he began to wish peace and comfort to Roy now, it would only make it harder to keep his word to the marquess, should it come to that.

It was a short letter. The envelope, once sealed, would still be quite thin. Yet Marcus knew it would have the power of lightning once it had done its job. _One of these will end up killing him,_ he couldn't help but think. The line about Roy's safety was small comfort: surely Eliwood would know his son must be reeling from the shock, and whose fault was that but his? For all Marcus's oaths to protect and serve, he felt complicit holding the letter, as though he were driving a knife into his lord's back. But perhaps it was only natural. In a world like this, good men couldn't last long.

And like a wayward message carried on the ocean tides, Marcus's own words came floating back to him: _do you think your father would've given up on you this easily?_ If Eliwood had proven anything of himself, it was that he was more steel than stone. If the world wore away at him, it was only because he was fighting it to the end. Or beyond the end. Toward the horizon.

Again shouldering that odd, distant anger that had consumed him in the dungeons, Marcus retrieved a quill pen from his saddlebag and, underneath Lance's tidy script, scrawled out his message:

 _He's learned the harsh truths. Tell him the other ones._


End file.
